


Six Minutes, You're On

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Eminem (Musician), Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s going to jerk off to a Rolling Stone spread. He’s not proud of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Minutes, You're On

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted Patrick/Eminem for _years_. Recently, a transcript of teenage Patrick harshing on Eminem's cadence on CNN popped up, and I bit the bullet. I request someone else to write more. Anything else. Seriously. I'll take anything. 
> 
> I put way too much research and effort into this. Seriously. Way, way too much research. To the six of you that stop by, thanks! 
> 
> Also, [these](http://postimg.org/image/67wkx6vt7/) [images](http://postimg.org/image/gl3hlcgbj/) [were](http://postimg.org/image/hbw7r4iov/) actually in/shot for the April 1999 Rolling Stone magazine that Patrick leafs through in here. I love it when the internet does what I want it to do.

**1999**

Patrick is fourteen and feeling a little dangerous. 

He’s been mowing lawns for the past two months to earn extra cash. The money’s burning a hole in his pocket at an alarming speed. He’s got four CDs and two vinyls in his hands, all of them tucked between his freakishly long fingers. They’ve gotten bigger, but the rest of him has stayed pretty much the same size. He’s a little bitter about it.

Currently, he’s staring at the hip hop rack, chewing his lip. He’s heard a lot of good things about the _Slim Shady LP_ , but he’s yet to listen to it all the way through. He figures he’s got enough to add one last CD before going completely broke, but his eyes keep catching on the tiny parental advisory sticker on the bottom corner of the case.

In his baggy jeans and Metallica shirt stolen from his brother’s closet, he doesn’t look eighteen. He wouldn’t look eighteen if he wore designer tuxedos. Still, it’s worth a shot to attempt it. He tucks the CD in with the others and goes to check out. 

The cashier knows him. He’s been in once a week every week since he was old enough to take the train into the city. She smiles at him, rings each item in, and places them carefully into a bag.

“I know you’re not eighteen,” she says, holding the little purple case up. Patrick smiles at her, as charming as he can make it. 

“I just want to broaden my musical horizons,” he says. He’s talked to this particular cashier about bluegrass before. He’s hoping she’ll bite. 

“We’ve got edited copies,” she says and points. “Go on. Take this back.”

Patrick shuffles off to the hip hop section, his shoulders up to his ears. He hates being treated like a kid. He’s almost old enough to drive. Some bad words aren’t going to make him lose it. 

As he’s putting the CD back, he looks over his shoulder at the cashier. She’s talking to another customer, nodding sympathetically at whatever he’s saying. Patrick takes it as a sign. Fast as he can, he slides his bitten down thumbnail under the parental advisory sticker, peels it off, and slaps it onto a clean copy. As he walks back up to the register, he rubs at the spot until he can’t feel the sticky residue anymore. 

He’s sweating as he hands it to her. He’s totally, totally going to get caught.

The cashier looks it over, adds it to his total, and holds her hand out for his lawn mowing money. Patrick forks over the cash without looking her in the eye. He is the world’s worst liar on a good day. She gives him his change and his receipt and tells him she’ll see him next week. Patrick practically runs out of the store.

He feels a little thrill. Look at him, being a badass. He preens on the way home, staring at his bounty.

For all the trouble he went through to get it, Patrick doesn’t listen to the CD for a few days. He doesn’t want to play it anywhere near his mom. She’ll know just by looking at him that he’s doing something he shouldn’t be.

So when he finally settles down in the back of study hall one day with his CD player, he’s disappointed to find that he doesn’t really like it. The beats are catchy, he guesses, but the lyrics are awful. He cringes through a few songs, apologizing to every woman he knows as he listens. The cadence throws him off. He can’t focus on the music, even if he tries. He gives it a twice over, just in case, but has to pop it out and replace it with a tried and true Tom Waits album. 

It’s a disappointment, but he deals with it. He goes home, tucks the CD onto the rack next to his bed, and forgets all about it.

A few months later, he opens a Rolling Stone and is suddenly reminded of it. He reads the article because he is the kind of guy that reads all the articles, and then he lets himself stare at the glossy photo that’s along the side.

In all the videos Patrick had seen of him, Eminem had been in big white t-shirts and loose pants. Patrick had figured it was to hide how skinny he was, but now that he’s seeing him almost entirely bare, he’s not so sure that’s the reason anymore. 

Okay, so he’s a little skinny, but it’s a muscled, toned sort of skinny that makes Patrick’s mouth go dry. Patrick looks at the thick lines of his bare thighs, at the photoshopped dynamite stick clutched in Eminem’s hands deliberately like it’s a dick, and feels the familiar stir in his jeans. 

He’s going to jerk off to a Rolling Stone spread. He’s not proud of himself. 

He locks the door to his bedroom, picks up the magazine, and throws himself onto his bed. When he’s done, he carefully tears the article out and sticks it into his nightstand. 

 

**2003**

“You know,” Pete says, kicking his feet up onto Patrick’s bed, “I am not willing to believe that we can’t come to an agreement.”

“The agreement is that you take what I’m saying with grace, or I punch you in the face,” Patrick says. He shoves Pete’s legs onto the floor and grips the neck of his guitar tightly. He’s ten seconds away from cracking it over Pete’s head. “How does that agreement sound?” 

“You should get that checked out, man,” Pete says. He laughs when Patrick punches his leg. “Look, go get us some drinks and we’ll play it again. If you can’t understand what I’m saying about the second verse, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Why don’t you go get us some drinks,” Patrick asks angrily. He’s so, so over Pete’s bullshit. This crappy band isn’t worth the frustration. 

“It’s your house,” Pete replies. When he sits up, his face is red from being upside down. He runs a hand over his buzzcut and smiles a big smile to hide how pissed off he is. Patrick’s seen that smile disarm dozens of other people. It doesn’t work on him. 

“I will end you, Wentz,” he says. “ _End you_.” He sets his guitar down and goes to the kitchen anyway. A break is probably a good idea. If he stays with Pete for one more second, he’s going to snap.

In the end, he brings up two bottles of water, a bag of Doritos, and a roll of napkins. If Pete gets cheese dust on any of his stuff, Patrick’s going to break his hands. They’ve been working nonstop on writing for this album, and Patrick can’t wait until he can take a nap. He’s not cut out for this crap. 

Pete’s sitting on his bed, shoes dangling off the mattress, Patrick’s laptop on his thighs. The track they’ve been working on is playing on a loop. Pete doesn’t look up when Patrick hands him the water or the chips. Patrick, who has become an expert in Pete Wentz in a very short period of time, knows something is up.

“What did you do?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. 

The song doesn’t sound any different. Pete’s watched him put tracks together, but he’s never picked up on the process. If he had tried to change any of the parts, it would have sounded awful. Nothing in the room is broken or missing as far as Patrick can see. He glances at his closet, but it’s still closed. His stomach drops when he sees the half open top drawer of his nightstand.

“You didn’t,” he says. Pete shrugs and stares harder at the computer. “Pete.”

“Dude, I am actually the last person you have to worry about,” he says. He rewinds the track and presses play again. Patrick can’t hear the music over his heartbeat. “You have a thing, and now I know.”

“Pete-”

“I made out with, like, three dudes in high school,” Pete blurts out. His leg is bouncing on the bed, making it squeak. It sounds dirty. Patrick isn’t angry anymore. He’s too busy being mortified. He’s not going to reach his nineteenth birthday. He’s going to die of embarrassment first. “See, I did something, and now you know. No big.”

“Never talk about this again,” Patrick says, slow so Pete can’t say he didn’t hear him. 

“Right.” Pete nods, plays the track again. “Never again.” Patrick changes the verse, shoves himself full of Doritos, and thinks very hard about his life choices.

To be fair, Pete doesn’t _say_ anything about it again. However, Patrick finds a back copy of Entertainment Weekly in his backpack a week later. A bruised, shirtless Eminem stares out at him, scowling straight into the camera. Patrick clips the article, carefully tears the cover off, and tucks it into his drawer. 

 

**2006**

Patrick adjusts his ascot. He’s tired of adjusting his ascot, but he has nothing else to do with his hands. Without looking away from the stage, Andy slaps his hand. Patrick folds his fingers together and tries not to squirm.

He hates going to these things. He looks like an idiot, and he already knows they didn’t win anything. On his left, Pete is bouncing his leg up and down. As much as he pretends to love the public outings, he’s not really a fan either. Patrick looks at Pete’s tan jacket and smiles a little meanly. At least he doesn’t look as stupid as Pete does. 

On the stage, Bono is accepting his nine billionth Grammy. Patrick claps at the appropriate moments and tries not to look too glazed over. He adjusts his ascot again. It itches.

When the ceremony is finally, _finally_ , over, they load into their limo and take the long ride to the afterparty. Pete has stuff to do there, but the rest of them only have to make cursory appearances. Patrick is going to home and sleep until tour starts. 

“Can I take this off yet?” Patrick asks as he worms his way to the bar with Pete. 

“Ascot solidarity lasts until the party’s over,” Pete says. He takes two flutes of champagne and hands one to Patrick. “We made a deal, Stump. Man up.”

“The ascot doesn’t add masculinity,” Patrick says. He downs his glass and reaches for another. “It takes it away. I’m growing a uterus as we speak.”

“Speaking of masculinity-” Pete puts four fingers on Patrick’s cheek and looks him in the eye. It’s incredibly disturbing. “So you know that thing we don’t talk about?” Patrick tightens his fingers around the stem of his glass.

“We are in _public_ ,” he hisses. It doesn’t matter what thing Pete is about to bring up. All of them are not meant for crowded places.

“You’ve got company, and he looks pretty good in a tie,” Pete says gleefully, and then scampers away. Patrick slowly turns around. He wants to be surprised when he comes chest to chest with Eminem, but he isn’t. 

“Yo,” he says, and holds out his hand. Meekly, Patrick offers his own. “Marshall. Rough break, man. You put out some good shit.” Patrick tries not to swallow his tongue. He’s still holding onto Em- Marshall’s hand. He drops it and fights the urge to adjust his ascot again. 

“Thanks.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’m, uh, Patrick.”

“Yeah, I heard about you from a few people.” Marshall isn’t that much taller than Patrick is. It’s startling. He twitches a little when he talks. “You got a good ear, man. It’d be cool to work with you in the studio.”

“I- Yeah.” Patrick fumbles for his card. His agent’s card. Okay, it’s Pete’s agent’s card, but they can still make this happen for him. He realizes as soon as he hands it over how stupid it is to be handing Eminem a business card. “Anytime.”

“Catch you later, man.” Marshall jams the card into the pocket of his loose slacks. “Cool scarf.”

And then he’s gone.

Pete shows up exactly five minutes later, his smile so wide Patrick can almost see the inside of his skull. He elbows Patrick in the chest just hard enough to say that he’s on his way to drunk. 

“So,” he says. It comes out stretched. “How did it go?”

“I think I took drugs,” Patrick says. He blinks at his champagne, like it’s going to tell him otherwise. “That is the only possible explanation.”

“You keep telling yourself that, peaches,” Pete says. He steals Patrick’s hat and gives him a double thumbs up. “I have just met a beautiful woman who wants me to tell her tour stories. You go home and spend some time with your thoughts. I’ll make your dreams come true.”

“Please don’t,” Patrick says. He smooths his hair back. If he doesn’t admit that he’s panicking, he won’t be. Simple as that. “Really.” Pete just keeps backing away. 

So Patrick goes home, pulls out the old magazine pages and spends time with his thoughts. 

 

**2007**

Patrick gets an email about going into the studio with Marshall. He chokes. 

He tells himself he doesn’t have the time to be there in person, but he can’t pass up the creative opportunity. He does a few Skype calls, sitting nervously in the bus with his laptop open and his headphones on. Marshall’s voice sounds thin over the video, but the tracks are clear as a bell. 

Marshall is a perfectionist. He sends Patrick email after detailed email about exactly what he wants, and Patrick makes the tiny adjustments without comment. Pete, who watches Patrick work with a kind of glee usually reserved for children, complains that Patrick’s never that complacent with him.

“It’s because you’re an asshole,” Patrick says. He resolutely does not get embarrassed when Pete laughs at him and makes rude hand gestures from the floor. 

“You get it, man,” Marshall says, three months into the project. He’s in the states and Patrick is in Japan. Neither one of them has slept in way, way too long. “You really do know your shit.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says. He feels kind of sheepish, but he doesn’t want to look like he is. “It’s been good working with you. You’ve got passion.” Marshall laughs. It makes his adams apple bob. 

“Passion isn’t the word I’d use,” Marshall says. He rubs his hand over his short hair, just the way Pete used to. He yawns. It makes him look younger than he is. As soon as he’s done, he laughs again. “Fuck. Sorry, man. It’s not you, trust me. We’ve been going nonstop for weeks.”

“Yeah, been there. We can cut it short tonight, if you want.” Patrick saves his files again, because he’s just a little obsessive about it. In the top corner of his screen, Marshall yawns again.

“Nah,” he says. “I can’t sleep for shit, anyway. Play it again. What do you think about sirens at the minute thirty mark?”

Patrick falls asleep a few hours later. They’re almost done. He can feel it in his bones. When he wakes up, the Skype window is still open. The studio on the other side of the camera is empty, but Marshall’s taped a sign to a mic boom.

_Give it a rest sleeping beauty._

Patrick laughs. He goes through the rest of his day with a stupid smile on his face. 

They finish up in a few more weeks. Patrick’s surprised when he gets an email afterward that’s just Marshall talking about… stuff. Patrick hesitantly responds, worried that he was CC'd on accident. A few days later, he's got another new email.

Patrick's always surprised when they pop up- separated by days or weeks, but never large chunks of time. Pete reads them over Patrick’s shoulder and gives him ‘helpful’ pointers when he thinks Patrick’s taking too long to respond. Patrick doesn’t usually take his advice. He knows better.

 

**2009B**

Marshall goes to rehab. Patrick’s band falls apart. 

 

**2013**

“This is a present to you,” Pete says, one hand held out in front him. A laminate dangles from his fingers. It’s not the same one Patrick’s already got around his neck. Pete doesn’t look up from his laptop. It’s Skype time with Bronx. God couldn’t make him look up from his computer. 

Patrick takes it and turns it over in his hand. He is not surprised to see the double M’s printed on the front. He doesn’t ask Pete where he got it. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. 

“Hey, bud,” Patrick says into the camera, smiling widely at the five year old on the other side of the screen. Bronx waves. “Find me when you’re done.”

Patrick grabs a coffee. He’s only been awake for a few hours and he’s got jetlag like nobody’s business. He loves travelling the world, but he hates the actual travel part. England always makes him feel tired. Pete finds him a while later, smiling like he’s got a secret. Patrick knows he does. 

“I talked to some people who talked to some people,” Pete says. He kicks his feet up onto the chair next to Patrick and sprawls out like he owns all the space in the world. “I’m expecting a good story when you get back.” 

“It’s been four years,” Patrick says, because it has been. He fingers the laminate and stares out into the dreary, foggy afternoon light. The mixed sounds of multiple bands playing float up through the windows.

"And?" Pete pokes at Patrick's thigh with his boot. They're heavy, and the pressure hurts a little. Patrick slaps halfheartedly at his leg. "You're you. People don't forget about you."

Pete grins. Patrick isn't surprised when he starts to rap badly. He leaves the room, which was probably Pete's plan all along.

Patrick checks himself in a window as he heads towards the stage Marshall's going to perform on. His hair is a little damp from the fog, and his glasses look like they were picked specifically to look cool, but otherwise he looks pretty alright. He scuffs his boots against the gravel and holds his chin up. He's a rockstar, god dammit. He has nothing to be nervous about.

He watches the act before Marshall, nods along. He doesn't know them, but they've got a good sound. He takes notes on his phone during the set and signs two autographs for a wandering tech.

"My brother digs your band, man," he says as Patrick dutifully writes out his name on the tech's laminate and white ball cap. "This is gonna make his night."

"Glad to help," Patrick says, a little embarrassed. He gives the appropriate fist bump and then settles into place for Marshall's set.

Patrick still isn't a big fan of Marshall's style, but he's got a heavy respect for the music. He personally knows how much thought went into every beat. It's kind of hot, in a really weird and specific way. It’s a good show, full of manic energy that bleeds out from the crowd. 

Marshall passes him when he leaves the stage. Patrick has gotten used to people not recognizing him, but he waits for the- there it is. The head turn and the scrunch of eyebrows as Marshall adds sixty pounds and facial hair.

“Rick?” He shouts. It’s loud side stage as they start breaking the stage down, but Patrick knows it’s more that Marshall’s going to be a little deaf for a while. Patrick waves. “Hey. Good to see you.”

Patrick is a hug kind of guy. He hands them out like candy. He’s not expecting Marshall to lean close and full on pull him in. It only lasts for a split second- a manly bro hug, unlike the ones he’s used to- but he instantly feels fourteen again. 

“Come on, man,” Marshall says. He pats Patrick’s shoulder and wanders off without looking back. Patrick follows behind him. He kind of wishes he were wearing a hat. 

They wind their way back to the dressing rooms. Patrick’s phone vibrates in his pocket three times. He knows each buzz is Pete, updating him on his own progression through the back area. If he wasn’t surrounded by people, he’d throw up a middle finger. Instead, he does the worst thing he can think of and ignores them.

“It’s kind of-” Marshall shrugs as he opens the door with his name on it. “It’s a dry room.”

“That’s cool.” Patrick shoves his hands into his pockets. “We play tomorrow. So. You know.” 

The room is small and white and clean and smells like the half-empty fruit bowl on the table. Patrick sits in the puffy red chair next to it. He watches Marshall choke down two bottles of water and does his best not to look at the nearly translucent spot of shirt at the small of Marshall’s back. He clears his throat. This was a bad idea.

“How’ve you been?” He asks. It’s lame, but it’s a start. Marshall shrugs. His shirt peels off of him slowly, following the movement all the way up.

“Been better, been worse,” he says. He’s bouncing a little. Stage high. “Heard your albums. Good shit.” Patrick laughs. He can’t help it. It’s a natural reaction. “I mean it, man. You still making beats?”

“Not as much as I used to,” Patrick admits. It had taken a backseat to everything else. He’s got his fingers in way too many pies these days. He kind of misses the nights he and Marshall had just fucked around with sounds. It had been a good change of pace. 

“Shame. You did some good work.” Marshall’s tossing his water bottle back and forth between his hands. It crashes into his palms with a slosh and a wet slap. “Could have used you on the stuff I’m working on.”

“If you just learn the equipment, you could take over, dude.” Patrick had offered to show him, once, but had never been able to get to the same place at the same time. Marshall shrugs again.

“Never got the hang of it.” His throw goes off. The bottle he’s been messing with goes sailing across the room. They both watch it crash into the wall. There’s a moment of silence, and then Marshall says, “fuck this.” 

He shoves himself off the chair and into Patrick’s space. His shirt smells like sweat, even though he looks mostly dry now. It’s impossible not to notice. He hesitates for half a second before pressing his mouth to Patrick’s. Patrick has imagined this for over a decade. He’s not ready for it. 

It’s like the hug- fast and alarming and over before Patrick can really react. Marshall backs up and rubs a hand over the back of his head. He doesn’t look affected at all. 

“You got a problem with that?” He asks. Patrick laughs. He laughs until he can’t breathe. He’s acutely aware of Marshall’s eyes on him, but he can’t make himself stop. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

“No,” Patrick says. He takes two deep breaths and lets out one last uncontrollable giggle. “I really don’t.” Marshall nods his head, like he’s checking the information in. The corner of his mouth quirks, but he doesn’t quite smile. “If you’ve got time in a few months, we have a break. I could show you some stuff. On the board.”

“Yeah, alright,” Marshall says. “I’ll email you.”

Later, when Patrick checks his phone, he’s got a missed call from Joe and four texts from Pete. One pops up as he crosses the lot back toward where he’s staying. 

_youre welcome_


End file.
